


if i was born as a blackthorn tree (i'd want to be felled by you)

by aseriesofessays



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, M/M, Run On Sentences, asexual/aromantic relationship? basically?, i had a weird dream!!, i mean its SORT OF enjoltaire but not really, platonic dedication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-24 04:37:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21332398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aseriesofessays/pseuds/aseriesofessays
Summary: Grantaire drinks wine like it’s water and would do anything for Enjolras. He’d killed a man the first time they met, sliced right across his throat with a blade borrowed from a startled passer-by, and turned to Enjolras with a beaming smile and a bow that was both gallant and hesitantly sketched, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was doing it right. Enjolras had told him, hotly, that he didn’t need help, thank you, and Grantaire had beamed again, fondly, like he couldn’t imagine anything more charming than him, and he had clung like a limpet ever since.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	1. A Summary

1.) Enjolras isn’t entirely sure where Grantaire came from. 

And it’s the truth that he’s closer to Grantaire than he is to probably anyone in the whole world, so it comes as a surprise when people hear that-- that Grantaire just sort of showed up one day, attached himself to Enjolras’s hip, and absolutely did not let go no matter how much Enjolras tried to shake him.

_(”Who the hell are you?” _

_“Oh, I’m R.” _

_“R? Like, the letter?” _

_“I suppose, if that’s what you want.”)_

2.) Grantaire is odd in a way that people aren’t-- he is slender and fragile-looking like a tree branch right up near the top, and his teeth are sharp and his eyes are icy cold when he’s looking at everyone but Enjolras. 

_(”Oh, I’m not,” he had said, pleasantly, curled up in front of the hearth like a cat. Enjolras hadn’t said anything, but he’d glanced away from his book and hitched his eyebrow up a couple notches anyway. _

_“Not what?”_

_“A person.” _

_Like they were continuing a conversation from earlier that day-- even though the last time Enjolras had bothered quizzing Grantaire about what, exactly, he was must’ve been months ago. He’s become fond of his strange shadow, and Grantaire gets flighty when too many questions are asked.)_

3.) Grantaire drinks wine like it’s water and would do anything for Enjolras. He’d killed a man the first time they met, sliced right across his throat with a blade borrowed from a startled passer-by, and turned to Enjolras with a beaming smile and a bow that was both gallant and hesitantly sketched, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was doing it right. Enjolras had told him, hotly, that he didn’t need help, thank you, and Grantaire had beamed again, fondly, like he couldn’t imagine anything more charming than him, and he had clung like a limpet ever since. He doesn’t seem quite like he knows what to do with Enjolras, just as much as Enjolras doesn’t know what to do with him, and he’d slept outside Enjolras’s rooms for months before he’d taken pity on him and let him inside. 

_(”Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he’d snapped, shirtless and messy-haired-- Grantaire hadn’t been making any noise, he never did, but the idea of him on the ground had been twisting in Enjolras’s belly for weeks now. The graceful way Grantaire unfolded himself and glided inside to curl on the rug in front of the cold fireplace had made Enjolras’s throat go dry, and he’d slammed the door rather harder than he should’ve. But Grantaire had been inside, and that’s what mattered. At the next inn, he gets a room with two beds.)_

4.) Grantaire doesn’t bother with pretense, most of the time, but once Enjolras had snapped at him to just _stay put_, for two goddamn hours, and when he’d come back from his sulk in the woods he’d been at a table with a group of men, playing dominos and roaring with laughter and hiding his cold eyes carefully behind a mask of cheerful drunkenness. The mutual awareness of their noticing each other didn’t keep Grantaire from his game, despite his usual insistence on following Enjolras wherever he went, and he’d stumbled into their rooms in the wee hours of the morning stinking of cheap wine. Enjolras had tried to apologize, but Grantaire had turned his back on him, sharp shoulders hunched inwards. 

_(”Grantaire, I--” _

_“Hush. In the morning, we’ll talk.” _

_They don’t. It’s okay, anyway.) _

5.) Grantaire would, will do-- has done-- anything for Enjolras. He is self appointed protector and he becomes confidant and friend gradually, after proving he can forgive and forget Enjolras’s fits of temper and more importantly proving that he will not go away. He isn’t pushy about it-- he’d stayed on the sidelines until Enjolras had drawn him closer and Enjolras has no doubt that if he was ever serious about telling Grantaire to leave and never return, Grantaire would go. He doesn’t want to test it. 

_(”Gods, but your friend is scary-- eyes like a fish, that one. Cold, you know-- wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of his blade--”_

_“I’d thank you to not speak ill of my companion, or I’ll gut _you _l__ike a fish.” _

_For that he’d gotten one of Grantaire’s beaming smiles, seemingly reserved only for him.)_

6.) Enjolras’s friends adore Grantaire, when they meet him. They fawn over him and his curly hair and his old fashioned clothes, and at Enjolras’s sharp look and unspoken plea to _behave_ Grantaire lets his muscles relax and slips warmth into his voice. Sometimes Enjolras even sees warmth in his eyes, when Courfeyrac’s being sillier than usual or Joly’s fretting on about the latest medical curiosity or Marius waxes on about his endless tragedy of a romantic tale. It makes jealousy flare, hot and unnecessary and selfish, in the pit of his belly, but then those watchful eyes turn back to him. 

_(”Are you-- you know,” Courfeyrac says, making a crude motion that involves both hands and somehow half his body-- when Enjolras shakes his head, he pouts. “But--”_

_“No, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras snaps, and that’s the end of the conversation. It would be taking advantage, he thinks, of Grantaire’s unquestioning loyalty. Their bond is a gift he doesn’t want to spoil with his own human greed.) _

7.) Grantaire talks and talks and talks on, a constant soothing prattle that tells everything and nothing at once. His words are layered and poetic as Jehan’s at his most drunk-- his arms gesticulate wildly and gracefully, illustrating stories that don’t quite make sense. 

_(”When I fell off the mountain top I could finally sing with the birds, and when I drowned the mermaid gave me her kiss. The ring of your sword is the ring of the sun, dear Enjolras, and if I could weep it would taste of honey.”_

_Enjolras listens, and he doesn’t understand. He mentions offhand that Grantaire should publish a volume of his poems, and he gives Enjolras a stare that’s so blank he can’t help but fidget under the scrutiny. _

_"I am only telling my story,” he says, and Enjolras gives him a helplessly fond smile and doesn’t ask again.)_


	2. A First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those blue eyes on him, piercing. Enjolras feels as though he’s being dissected and studied for merit, before R smiles again. “I’d like to help.” 
> 
> “I don’t need your help!” 
> 
> “Well, you’ve got it anyways,” he says, placidly. 
> 
> And fuck. Enjolras just cannot shake him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well fuck this is chaptered now by request of one single person and also that im putting off writing an essay. its bad because i didnt edit and also because i cant be fucked to finish it off properly and itll probably end in bullet points. woohoo strap in

It’s not as though Enjolras tries to get into trouble. 

Well, it’s not like Enjolras tries hard to get into trouble. His main goal is redistribution of the vast amounts of wealth nobles like to hoard like fleshy dragons in their ugly manor houses, and sure, that sometimes (always) involves thievery, and that in turn gets people pissed off and generally ends with Enjolras fighting for his life in the town square against some middle-aged asshole with a sword that’s obviously compensating for _something_ with half the town on his side and the other half baying for his blood, but he’s not _looking_ for it. If you asked him, he’d say he’s looking for a free and peaceful world, and if you asked his friends, they’d say he’s probably looking for a good fight before a free and peaceful world came about, and perhaps a scarf in it as well (Enjolras has a long, graceful neck, and his long, graceful neck gets cold easily). 

He’s not surprised in the slightest, then, that when he vaults his way out of the mayor’s ornate second story window and lands in a roll on the pavement, he’s crashing directly in front of a bar in a large open space that looks suspiciously like a main meeting area. He’s also not surprised when the front door of the house opens and the mayor (middle aged. Balding. Carrying a long, long sword) barrels out. He’s downright bored when the crowd splits easily into two separate crowds, both equally loud and equally willing to gather up the coins and gold cutlery he’s scattered about himself. It’s routine, really. 

A man melts out of the woods to his left. 

Enjolras notices him, vaguely, from the corner of his eye- a man, he thinks, with dark, curling hair, not immediately splitting off to either side of the crowd. Not his problem, at least, so he keeps his eyes warily on that stupidly enormous sword, and is just darting forward to swing when the mayor crumples to the ground. 

His throat is slit, neatly, and the crowd is very quiet as Enjolras turns to look. The man is stood over the corpse, a short sword in his loose grip and a smile plastered to his face in an ill-fitting way, like he might be trying it out for the first time. He bows, a little jerky and a lot uncertain. 

“What the hell,” Enjolras says, and then, “what the _hell_\- who the fuck are you? I didn’t need your help.” The man studies him, cocks his head to the side, smile still in place. Enjolras almost stomps his foot, but stops himself at the last second- townsfolk are petering away, slowly, muttering to themselves. There’s a gold coin next to the man, but no one seems willing to get close enough to snatch it. “I didn’t need- who _are_ you?” 

“I think I’m keeping you,” he says, instead of answering, and when Enjolras glares his smile widens and softens into a warm sort of grin. It’s charmingly crooked, and alarmingly sharp. 

“You can’t keep me,” Enjolras snaps- the crowd has dispersed, the gold on the floor gathered into skirt pockets and purses, so he’s free to stalk unhindered. The man is also free to follow at a casual pace, and they continue like this until it’s too much for Enjolras to bear and he spins on his heel. 

“Who the hell _are_ you?” 

“Oh, I’m R.” 

He has to fight not to stamp his foot again, and while he wrings his hands in an effort to keep them away from the man’s- _R’s_\- neck, he studies him. Short, slender, blue eyes that are unsettling, somehow. He’d discarded the sword somewhere along the way, but Enjolras still feels as though there’d be twenty ways for R to kill him without breaking a sweat. He narrows his eyes. “R?” It’s disdainful, but Enjolras often is. “Like, the letter?” 

“I suppose, if that’s what you want.” 

How annoyingly cryptic. “What do you want with me?” 

Those blue eyes on him, piercing. Enjolras feels as though he’s being dissected and studied for merit, before R smiles again. “I’d like to help.” 

“I don’t need your help!” 

“Well, you’ve got it anyways,” he says, placidly. 

And _fuck_. Enjolras just cannot shake him. 

He goes through three towns with R shadowing him- sleeps with a dagger, though R never even gets close past the first encounter. He catches glimpses of him every once in a while, humming softly and dipping his feet in a river or curled up tight in front of his door in the morning, eyes closed and still as a statue. He gets into fights and comes out without scrapes- the second it looks like he might get one R melts out of the crowd and dispatches the men efficiently. It’s infuriating. Enjolras has never hated anyone more in his life. 

He’s never wanted to understand more in his life, either, which is just annoying. 

\--

He sits down for dinner and, unlike his usual, R sits across from him. There’s a bottle of wine in his hand, and a curious look in his eyes. Enjolras eats, stubbornly, for five minutes before he breaks. 

“Who are you?” 

R cocks his head, a furrow appearing between his brows, and studies Enjolras’s face like he's looking for signs that anything is wrong. “We’ve gone over this before. I’m R.” Enjolras has to fight not to hit him. 

“I know you’re R- although, _although_, that’s not even a fucking name, but you can keep that secret if you must. I mean- who are you? What are you? Why are you following me?” 

The wrinkle smoothes, then reappears. “I’m following you because--” R stops, shakes his head like he’s confused as well. “My name is Grantaire.” 

Grantaire. That name is human, although the creature is decidedly not. “What are you, Grantaire? Why are you following me?” 

R takes a long swallow from his bottle, eyebrows furrowed together and eyes fixed solemnly on Enjolras’s own. “I do not know why I’m following you,” he says, slowly, then closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I’m following you because you need followers. I’m following you because- a companion is important to have, and because you are important. There is something historic about you, Enjolras. There is something in you that needs to be protected.” 

Enjolras hisses before he can stop himself- who is this _man_, this creature to talk about protection? He looks like a breeze could bowl him over, even though Enjolras knows that not to be the case. Still. “I do not need protection from the likes of you,” he snaps, and Grantaire shrugs. Enjolras wants to hit him. Enjolras wants- _fuck_. Has he ever hated a man so much? He wants to cut Grantaire open and extract his secrets. 

**Author's Note:**

> i had a dream and this was the dream!! i kept thinking about it until i finally wrote it because it just was so pervasive!! so here this is!! i havent written in a hot second, im sick, and its three am. i did not edit. the vibes of it all are keeping me alive


End file.
